


The Not So Foolproof Fool

by elwinglyre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gay Sex, Johnlock - Freeform, Loads of porn, M/M, Pining, locked vault, not a locked room :)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 21:42:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10544812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwinglyre/pseuds/elwinglyre
Summary: The joke is on Sherlock but backfires when John sets out to let Scotland Yard hijack Sherlock's Twitter account. John and Sherlock end up locked in Barclay's precious metals' vault. Sharp words, silly tweets, and hot sex ensue.Written for Tumblr April 2017 Challenge: April Fool Day  at https://sherlockchallenge.tumblr.com/tagged/april2017Also, I haven't written this long of a sex scene in years. Hope it's hot.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I have no idea how any of the dynamics of the security, lighting in this particular secret vault at Barclay's functions. It's all "Complete Fiction."
> 
> Tense change at sex scene is intentional.

“We’re locked in a fucking bank vault, Sherlock. So, shut it! Now!”

“You can hardly blame me for this predicament. What respectable establishment would leave us unattended for so long, forget that we’re here, then close the vault door?”

John rolled his eyes and crossed his arms in a shapeless sign of amusement. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other as he watched Sherlock inspect one of the security cameras. “This is a respectable establishment! Just because the building looks ordinary and nondescript doesn’t mean what’s inside isn’t state of the art. This vault is Barclay’s best kept secret! It’s supposed to be foolproof. No, the problem is that you _told_ one of the unnamed-anonymous managers that her husband was having an affair with...with a branch manager. Of course she left, you berk.”

“They wanted my opinion; therefore, I gave them my opinion. And stating a person is unnamed and anonymous is redundant.”

“This is not about me being repetitious or the love life of the employees! They wanted your opinion of the security!”

“Obviously they have a huge security problem if they’ve left us in here. But you are right, John--this is not your fault or Barclay’s. This is Mycroft’s fault. He’s the one who made us come here and spend our precious time with these boring, simpletons.” 

John honestly couldn’t be too angry at Sherlock or Mycroft for their predicament. It _was_ as much, if not more, his fault. Mycroft had done what he’d always done--manipulate the situation to get a modicum of power over his little brother. He’s sent them on busy work. John had only convinced Sherlock to do it because: one, the money would help pay for the repairs made on 221B; and two, it helped distract Sherlock. The reason? It had all started last Thursday night after the Robertson’s jewelry theft case. He and Lestrade had shared a few beers and mutual frustrations regarding Sherlock’s crass attitude toward Mrs. Robertson’s taste in necklaces and men. John admitted he had vented a bit about trivialities like Sherlock’s habit of leaving out the milk and not scrubbing the sink after experiments. That was when Lestrade suggested that a prank on Sherlock for April Fool’s Day might be just what the doctor ordered. But John had not ordered this. He sighed as he kicked one of the uncountable stacks of gold bars.

“Unfortunately, the alarms only go off when one breaks _into_ the vault. However if either of us had our mobiles, we would be out of here.”

  
“You know why I bloody well took your mobile! I warned you that the next time you sent a tweet about Donovan's sex life, I’d confiscate it.”

Well, that wasn’t exactly why he’d taken it. The ultimatum regarding Donovan was just an excuse to get Sherlock’s cell phone and access to his Twitter account. He’d left the mobile for Lestrade to pick up, but he had to get Sherlock out of Baker Street and away from his mobile. This whole checking the security at Barclay’s that Mycroft had served up was just icing on the cake. A perfect distraction for Sherlock. John hoped the Yard was having an enjoyable April Fool’s Day sending out updates under Sherlock’s hijacked account. He was sorry to be missing all the fun.

“But did you have to leave my phone at the apartment?” Sherlock whined.

“It was that or give it to Donovan.”

“And then you lost your own cell phone!” Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. “Take particular notice that I did not disparage you in any way when it would be so patently easy to do so.”

“Yeah, well, thank you so very much,” John said, sarcastically. “I don’t know how I could have lost it--you had me practically doing handstands searching under desks earlier.”

“It didn’t fall out. I would have noticed.”

John smirked. He doubted that. He wouldn’t be surprised that Sherlock hadn’t noticed. He’d been watching John’s arse the whole time--John caught him eyeing his backside and watched Sherlock blush after discovery. He’d never seen him turn that pink before. All the way to the tips of his ears. It was endearing, really.

“Can you get us out?” John asked as he watched Sherlock pace. He wasn’t too concerned yet since he figured that Lestrade would realize when they hadn’t made it back to the station to retrieve Sherlock’s cell, that something happened to them. After all, they expected that Sherlock would deduce what happened, then check his account from his laptop.

“We’re aren’t locked in just any vault,” Sherlock explained. “We’re inside Barclay’s precious metals’ vault. The doors can withstand rocket-propelled grenades. The ceilings are electrified. The floor has deep piles and plinths designed to deter tunneling from beneath. We aren’t getting out until they open the vault door.”

“And that would be when?”

“Most likely morning unless someone notices us on the monitor from these cameras. I’m sure someone must inspect it with regularity.”

Sherlock tapped his fingers against one of the shelves holding gold bars as he considered another one of the security cameras.

“Pass me your shirt, John.”

“My shirt?! What?! No, Sherlock.” John hesitated, then thought better of Sherlock’s request. “Why exactly do you need my shirt?”

“To throw over the camera. Honestly John, you are _not_ an idiot, but sometimes I do believe you’re disguised as one.”  Sherlock snapped his fingers. “Shirt. Quickly.”

“Why do I have to take off _my_ shirt?”

“Really John, must I answer that.” Sherlock swung around and squinted at John’s leather jacket, then inspected him from head to toe. John had to admit there was some appeal to stripping in front of him. He let out a long-suffering sigh and took off his leather coat and handed it to Sherlock, followed by his oatmeal jumper. He unbuttoned his blue checkered shirt, took it off, then flung it at Sherlock whose lips were curled in satisfaction.

“There, was that so awful?”

“Pass me back my jumper and coat, it’s bloody cold in here.”

“No need to have this vault temperature controlled,” Sherlock said, then tossed John’s shirt over the camera like a swashbuckler. He spun and faced John with a sardonic grin. “Now all we need do is wait for one of the insipid security personnel to observe the obstruction, and we should be released.”

“And how long exactly do we have until the oxygen runs out?” John joked.

Sherlock bit back a laugh. “Really, John, you’ve watched far too much bad telly.” Sherlock stretched like a big cat. “Until then I’ll need something to relieve this boredom. My mobile would be nice or _yours_ ,” he paused and continued caustically. “Oh, yes, you lost it standing on your head.”

John hadn’t meant to leave his behind too. In fact, he thought picked it up off the counter, but it wasn’t in his jacket pocket. At first he’d assumed Sherlock had nicked it in repayment for taking his, but it was evident now that Sherlock didn’t have it.

As John leaned against one of the shelves, he knew that Sherlock most likely knew that swiping the cell was part of a prank. Afterall, Sherlock could read John with precision. John might as well be a google map. John certainly thought that Sherlock had his own special google map in his mind palace--one where any dissembling or distortions or deceptions had colored-coded dots and pushpins. John wasn’t a good liar, so for Sherlock to actually believe anything that came out of John’s mouth had to have a bit of truth tied to it. One big, red pushpin.

However, to John’s surprise, Sherlock came to the entirely wrong conclusion.

“You think I couldn’t decipher what you’ve been up to, John? No one could get accidentally locked in this vault. There are cameras. They are monitored. People would notice. And I know what day it is.”

John and Lestrade knew that to successfully fool Sherlock, John’s lie had to be cultivated from some half-truth. That using a falsehood was a bit, well, not good, and that in itself would for a time make Sherlock overlook John as suspect. John was not completely above deception. He was just terrible at it. And it was only for a joke. Taking Sherlock’s mobile? Yes. Conspiring to flood Twitter with embarrassing posts on Sherlock’s account? Yes. But getting locked in the vault? No. Not that. Because he would never, ever in this universe want to be trapped inside one of the most secure and secret vaults in the England with the world’s greatest consulting detective for god knows how long. It almost made John want to hyperventilate. Trapped with a BORED Sherlock Holmes! So instead of hyperventilating, John began to laugh hysterically. The ridiculousness of their entire circumstances just compounded his hysterics. Here they were, surrounded by more riches than any king or pirate could even comprehend! Shelves upon shelves, rows upon rows. Billions worth of silver, gold, and platinum. All stacked neatly. 

John laughed so hard he cried.

John finally caught his breath long enough to take a seat on some gold bars stacked on a pallet. He looked up and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand to see Sherlock frowning at the ceiling.

“No, seriously Sherlock, this isn’t part of the prank,” he finally said.

“So you admit _there is_ a prank?”

“Got me,” John said. “But being locked up in here is not part of any plan. This happening is not impossible. I read about it once--some lovers got locked into a vault together all night.”

John smiled, then noticed Sherlock actually blushing again. He could get used to seeing that. 

Sherlock’s Belstaff flowed in back of him as he paced in front of John. This whole experience became more surreal. All those bars of gold and platinum glittered, but they became just a backdrop to Sherlock, who sparkled brighter than any precious metal. To John, Sherlock had never dimmed over the last months, last years. It had been hell, and there had been moments he swore that he hated Sherlock. But watching him now, John felt the key turn to the lock inside of him. The door opened a crack, and John felt alive. All at once John realized that being trapped in a vault was not the worst thing that could happen to him in the universe.

Suddenly the lights dimmed. John held his hand in front of his face. He could barely see it.

“Conserving energy I presume,” Sherlock noted.

John strained his eyes to see Sherlock.

“This April Fool’s joke,” Sherlock said, “it has to do with my mobile phone.”

John’s eyes began to adjust to the room--it  had an odd yellow glow, casting irregular shadows.

Sherlock spun around. “Since we have all this time on our hands, maybe I should deduce precisely why you took my mobile and left it--” Sherlock’s eyes grew wide. “No, you wouldn't!”

“Yes, I would.” John smiled, fingers running along some of the gold bars. “It took you long enough. Do you think we could get away with putting a few bars in our pockets?” John asked distractedly, and began choking down another fit of laughter. “The sad part is I’ll have to wait to read all the updates since I lost my mobile.”

“I don’t think you lost it. I saw you put your cell phone in your pocket before we left. Mrs. Hudson came upstairs to get Rosie, then… Why would Mrs. Hudson take your cell phone?”

“Mrs. Hudson didn’t nick my mobile!”

“I do believe she did--she straightened your coat, hugged you. She had ample opportunity.”

John shook his head.

“She used to be a very good pick-pocket, John. Stems from her drug dealer husband, you know.”

“All this talk about stealing and treasure. This is a perfect opportunity to play pirates,” John suggested half seriously.

“Arrr, and this be our booty,’” Sherlock said, waving his arms around him and laughing, “but there is a mystery to be solved here, which is far more engaging than playing pirates. We're locked in this place. Why? For what purpose? What are we being kept from?”  Sherlock dramatically spun around again, then plopped down next to John, legs strung out akimbo.

“Maybe we’re not being kept from anything,” John suggested.

As Sherlock turned to look at John, his thigh pressed to John’s tigh. John did nothing to distance himself. Instead he shifted his own weight toward Sherlock. In the yellow light, Sherlock’s cat-like eyes glowed. It was intoxicating. John swallowed. They were locked together in a vault.

Alone.

“I wonder, John if all of this might be part of an elaborate practical joke--on you and I both.”

“That would mean they’d have to get Barclay’s to agree to lock us in. That means Mycroft would have to be part of it. I doubt Mycroft would go along with any April Fool’s prank,” John said, eyes moving toward where their legs touched. “No, not unless it served another vital purpose.”

“I don’t see anything vital going on here unless someone plans to break into this vault tonight,” Sherlock said, lifting his chin.

“If that was the case, why wouldn’t Mycroft tell us that?” John asked.

Suddenly, it was clear to John why they were here. He was surprised Sherlock hadn’t realized.

Everyone saw it from the start. They both ignored it. 

John recalled it easily. Late night. Alone but not alone. He’d pretend. The next day, it was hard to look at Sherlock, face him. When he’d been with Mary, he’d managed to stop for a while.

For a while. Then. It started again.

Since he’d been back at Baker Street, alone at night with Sherlock downstairs, it had started again and he hadn’t wanted to will it away. He no longer had a problem looking at Sherlock in the face because he was searching. Searching to find the same in Sherlock’s face that he’d hidden away for so, so long. He’d suspected Sherlock had done the same for a long time. At the wedding. No, even before when Sherlock had returned, before the swan dive off Bartholomew's. But that day on the tarmac, he was positive what Sherlock was going to say. There was no mistaking. But Sherlock didn’t. Then later, he tried to fool himself into believing he’d misread it all.

He hadn’t misread a thing.

It’s cool in this room, but sweat is running down John’s spine. It feels like the echo of what he feels inside of himself, inside his heart, his soul.

He always wondered how it would work. Would Sherlock kiss him? Would he kiss Sherlock? Would he let Sherlock breech him, fill him? All this precious metal, but nothing more precious than what sits so near. John rests his hand on Sherlock’s thigh and hears a hiss escape Sherlock’s lips, and his eyes flutter shut. There’s a moment where he could pull his hand back and pretend it’s all just an accidental touch. Instead, he leaves it. The ache between them balances. John caresses those slim-cut trousers lightly with the palm of his hand, then inches his hand up along Sherlock’s long leg, higher and higher until he finds rock-hard proof-positive that Sherlock Holmes wants John Watson. All control is gone. For both of them. Sherlock’s lips tremble. The space between their mouths diminishes by halves upon halves until lips meet in that mutually agreed upon space.

“The cameras,” John blurts out but can’t bring himself to let his hand leave Sherlock’s hard cock.

“We are in a blind spot--your shirt--” Sherlock says and kisses John again hard--mouth open this time, and he twists his body into John’s.

“What if someone comes?”

“Yes, John, what _if_ someone comes?”

John blushes thinking about what Sherlock would look like, what he would look like. And that uncertainty of being caught here with Sherlock drives John’s lust forward.

Sherlock is kissing John like he needs John to exist. It’s all John can do not to slip down into a puddle on the floor. He wedges himself so that his back is flat to gold bars and pulls Sherlock down with him. He can feel the slip of Sherlock fingers between them and hears the jingling of a belt buckle echoing and the sweet music of a zip being pulled down. His own hands are shaking. John spreads his legs apart, and Sherlock fits himself between them like he’s morphing into John.

With little hesitation, John’s hand slips inside Sherlock’s black silk pants and grasps Sherlock’s cock. He feels different. John casts his eyes down between them to witness the difference. Long and thin and veins throbbing, foreskin pushed back and head bright red and shiny. A pearl of precum rests there, and John gives a gasp. He’s never held a man like this before, but he’s done it to himself enough to know what feels good. God knows he’d played this out enough in his imagination enough times to give Sherlock the best handjob of his life, and from the keens and moans Sherlock lets escape from deep inside, John feels pride as he pumps and twists his wrist.

His own cock ruts impatiently against Sherlock’s thigh, but isn’t neglected for long as Sherlock’s long fingers rub his length and tease at his girth. John knows he’s big. Really big. And his size might be a bit intimidating. That’s partly of why he thinks he said what he says next. Why it came out so easily for him, he later wonders about.

“Fuck me, Sherlock. I want you... to fuck me,” John confesses and hopes that no one but Sherlock hears him.

“Yes.”

And for something so pivotal, it’s the shortest response Sherlock has ever given. Any other time, John would have called him a berk for being so quick to agree. Now, John celebrated brevity, and also the fact that Sherlock removed John’s jeans, jumper and pants with such precision that John wondered if Sherlock hadn’t been a rent boy in another life.

Sherlock pulls John to his feet, takes off his Belstaff and lays in out like it is as valuable as the gold bricks beneath it. It won’t be much padding, but at this point, John could care less. John spreads himself out on the coat like a grand sacrifice.

The aura of gold light makes Sherlock appear ethereal, majestic. His shoulders squared, features chiseled, cock jutted proudly. For a second John wondered what the fucking hell he was doing. Then Sherlock knelt down and kissed the doubt right out of him. He felt his knees fall open with greed as he watched Sherlock’s long tapered fingers slip into those pornographic lips. They came out shiny and wet, then tested his hole. He slips one inside, then another.

Sherlock’s found exactly what he’s looking for. John squirms as he sees flashes and spangles beneath his eyelids. He pushes greedily against Sherlock’s fingers. When Sherlock pulls them out with a pop, John’s eyes fly open to the realization they are woefully unprepared.

“You’ll have to use more spit,” he says, his voice raw.

Sherlock nods as he lines up and spits on John’s pucker and then on his own dick. It’s the single hottest thing John has ever seen, and he swears that there really is an oxygen shortage in the room.

Sherlock is breathing hard and his jaw is clenched as he pushes inside of John. His arse grips and burns and feels like Sherlock’s girth will never fit. Then sparks appear like some mystical apparition, and he looks up to see Sherlock, destroyed and beautiful and all for him. It’s all gone when they’re eyes lock as Sherlock bears down and pushes completely inside. Sherlock moves cautiously at first. John lifts his hips to counter Sherlock’s thrusts and shifts. He still can’t believe they’re doing this, and he can’t believe they’ve never done this.

“You are remarkable,” Sherlock says. And it’s exactly just what John was thinking about Sherlock. “Come for me John.”

The permission tips John over the edge. John knows he’s either swearing or praying--it’s beyond him what exactly is coming out of his mouth, but he does know that he’s grabbing Sherlock’s arse so hard that it will leave bruises. His arsehole spasms along with his cock as he comes.

Sherlock arms shake, his rhythm suddenly gone. Sherlock gasps and gulps air as his hips jerk. John is shocked that he can actually feel Sherlock come inside him.

It’s only seconds, but feels like minutes to John. He knows that his back will be a mass of bruises from the gold bars. And he doesn’t fucking care.

Then John heard the door of the vault clang open.

The last time he dressed that fast was when he and his men were shelled with IEDs in Afghanistan.

Lestrade stood at the vault door, waiting. Sherlock couldn’t stop looking over at John and smiling. And he couldn’t stop smiling back.

“You!” John said at last. “You were behind this.”

“Afraid I can’t take the credit,” Lestrade grinned.

“Hand me your mobile, now!” Sherlock demanded.

John couldn't keep himself from stepping near Sherlock and taking a peek as Sherlock scrolled through his Twitter account, rapidly assessing the damage.

 

 

> Sherlock Holmes @scienceofdeduction 2h  
>  I am the most tremendous tosspot who ever walked the earth. #BiggestTosspotEver
> 
> Sherlock Holmes @scienceofdeduction 2h  
>  I only call Anderson dimwitted to overcompensate for my tiny penis.
> 
> Sherlock Holmes @scienceofdeduction 2h  
>  John needs my magnifying glass to locate my teeny weeny. #MicroscopeRequired

 

The moment Sherlock realized John was reading the tweets, Sherlock raised the mobile above his head and continued to scroll through, frowning. John squinted to read the tweets, and read a few more before finally giving up. If he’d known he was going to become part of the joke, he wouldn’t have been so quick to let them have Sherlock’s cell.

 

 

> Sherlock Holmes @scienceofdeduction 30m  
>  John Watson has the finest arse in all of London. #WantInside
> 
> Sherlock Holmes @scienceofdeduction 30m  
>  I love John’s really big gun. I do so enjoy when he gets it out and shows it to me. #Itchytriggerfinger

 

John barked back a laugh, and Sherlock shot him a dirty look and spun around so John couldn’t read the mobile’s screen. John shrugged his shoulders. He’d get to read them all soon enough. But one last try wouldn’t hurt, and he inched around and spied the last entry.

 

 

> Mycroft Holmes @imadethisaccounttofuckwithyou 3m  
>  April Fools, little brother and congrats! I do trust that you and your blogger had a banging good time. @scienceofdeduction #Jokesonyou

 

“I knew he was behind this,” Sherlock mumbled.

“I think _behind_ is the key word there,” Lestrade laughed.

“God,” John said, rubbing his hands over his face. “We’re never going to hear the end of this, are we?”

Lestrade stepped up between them and patted them both on the back.

“No, you’re never going to hear the ‘end’ of this. And I say ‘congrats’ to you both too. It’s about time--do you know how many bets I’ve lost over the years?”

  
END

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Sherlock Challenge for getting me off my arse to write. I work best under duress. 
> 
> Thank you for reading. Please comment. I like it and also helps motivate me to write more porn.
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr: [**elwinglyre Tumblr**](https://elwinglyre.tumblr.com/)!


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